


Rabbit's Foot

by commodorecliche



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: All-consuming Grief, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Corruption, Descent into Madness, Discovery of the Galra, Emotional Damage, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Gladiator Battles, Graphic Violence, Happy-ish Endings, I want people to tell their children terrifying stories about the things we did for love, Loss of Control, Lotta Hurt and a Little Comfort Later, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Psychological Horror, Questioning Reality, Supernatural Elements, Thriller, dark themes, dark!shiro, eventual normal!Shiro, idk what else to tag this with tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-06 17:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12215058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: After Shiro goes missing on the Kerberos mission, Keith is left with nothing more than a shack, his thoughts, and a wide, desolate desert to keep him company. And every day that Shiro is gone, hope for his safe return begins to dwindle. But when Shiro suddenly reappears in the middle of the night - somewhat different than Keith remembers him - Keith begins to question what's real, what isn't, and what kind of person he truly is. With his grip on reality loosening, and control over his actions dwindling in the presence of this stranger that's returned to him, Keith must come to terms with the darkest parts of the universe and himself.





	1. .01.

**Author's Note:**

> Finally getting to post this! 
> 
> Here is my fic for the sheithbigbang! I was paired with the amazing [her-paintstrokes](http://her-paintstrokes.tumblr.com) as my artist. Please, go check out her piece she did for my fic. It's absolutely incredible. [LINK TO COME]
> 
> I had this idea and have been wanting to write this fic for a long while now, and I'm happy I was finally able to have it come to fruition. This is a dark fic and will deal with some pretty dark/heavy stuff so please make sure you check out the tags before entering.

**::**

 

A long time ago someone told Keith that grief is the only pure sin we ever commit.

It’s a faceless memory to him at this point, can’t quite remember who told him. But he supposes they don’t matter. Those words had always stuck - faceless lips that preached to him of grief’s all-consuming, righteous hunger.

He doesn’t know how much he buys into the righteousness of it though. Because god knows that Keith has grieved, and indeed has been consumed by it, and he knows all too well that it is an ugly, horrific thing.

It never once felt pure.

It still doesn’t.

The white walls that surround him are probably the purest thing he’s seen in ages. Egg-shell white, grossly clinical tiles, clean white sheets on a off-white mattress, and starchy, snow white clothes that the Garrison had given him. He feels out of place. It’s unfitting for someone like _him_.

It’s much too quiet. Much too pristine. Almost overbearing.

He sleeps on the floor, because where else do dogs lie?

But he figures it isn’t bad for a jail cell.

**::  
  
**

Keith sits in the corner of the room and stares up at the spot on the wall where he feels a clock should hang. He finds it somewhat odd that they wouldn’t mount one, but it doesn’t really matter. He honestly only looks for the clock because of the ritual of it. Keith already knows that it’s late - he doesn’t need the exact time. The lights in his cell have already dimmed. The pacing footsteps of the regular, daytime guards have died down as the hustle and bustle of the day has dwindled and shifted to the night watch. There’s still a couple guards on duty, but over the course of the few days he’s been here, he’s noticed that the evening watch is quieter, more reserved than their daytime counterparts. They talk less to each other, they move around less, their voices and noises are mere murmurs that drift down the hall towards his cell. It’s just a symptom of the night time, he supposes.

Not for him, really. But for many.

Keith leans his head back against the wall and lets his eyes rest on that same empty spot where the clock should be. He doesn’t need a clock - time ticks by whether it’s there or not, and time is steadily ticking by on his final few hours. He should savor them. Instead, he counts the tiles. Keith counts them in batches of 12 - Shiro’s favorite number - and wonders if perhaps Shiro would praise or chastise him for his marvelous disregard of his current predicament.

Keith counts to himself in steady rhythm, each number in his head sounding off like the ticking of a metronome, until everything else around him goes silent. The hush of his cell goes a bit _too_ quiet, the silence deafening. It’s a small thing to notice, but as the silence settles over everything, over the counting in his head, he feels that, no, _knows_ that something is wrong. With a furrowed brow, Keith lifts his head from off the wall and listens closely for the soft, distant sounds of the two night guards, but even their murmurs have gone oddly quiet. Keith pushes himself up to stand, his back dragging up the wall as he does, before toeing his way towards the particle barrier of his cell. He’s met with a few moments of aching silence - a quiet that stirs up something sore and familiar in his gut - before a slow, sharp clacking reverberates down the hall.

It’s the click of footsteps that he hears, but the sound is far too piercing and pointed to be the guards’, and Keith knows it. He can’t see down the hall, unable to even lean against the particle barrier of his cell to steal a glance, but he can hear the footfalls persisting like an angry heartbeat down the hall and closing in on him.

There’s a familiar rapidness in Keith’s heart that’s building, an anxious anticipation that takes him back to the derelict, old shack that stands alone out in the desert. Keith’s throat tightens - a stinging taste of bile burns at the back of his tongue as a familiar shadow casts along the floor just into his line of sight.

He doesn’t need to look to know who it is.

When Shiro steps into view outside of Keith’s cell - his mouth twisted into a sharp smile, flecks of red splattered across his face and clothes - Keith doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he stares at him and thinks about the ticking of the nonexistent-clock that tells him his time should be running out. He thinks of the burning in his gut that had always flared at the sight of Shiro - thinks of the burn that’s aching now in the pit of his stomach as he stares at Shiro’s pale, white face, teeth wrought into a crooked grin.

There’s blood all over him, and Keith can smell the iron of it as if it had drenched his own white clothes. Shiro lifts his arm from his side and reveals a key card and badge clutched between his metallic fingers. Shiro lets it dangle to and fro in front of Keith from the other side of the barrier; the grim smile on Shiro’s face never fades. The guard’s picture on the badge is covered with scarlet red so his face is nothing but a dirty splotch on the plastic.

Shiro’s smile taunts him in a way that has grown so familiar that Keith probably wouldn’t recognize Shiro without it anymore.

“It’s time to go,” Shiro lulls as he lifts the key card up to the control panel.  

Keith clenches his jaw as the panel beeps and the particle barrier that separates them fades away.

He tastes blood; grief has _never_ been pure.

**::  
  
**

_Earlier that day…_  


Keith would give anything right now to not have to look at Pidge’s hardened face as she stares at him. She’s uneasy, but doing her best to remain firm as she focuses on him through the particle barrier of his cell. There’s a bold, white line painted on the floor - the boundary line that determines the minimum safe distance she is supposed to maintain between herself and Keith’s cell. Her chair is stationed obediently behind it, but it toes the line as if she were aching to be closer.

At this point, every inch of space between them is a breath of fresh air for Keith. His aversion to her isn’t out of shame - even though god knows he _should_ be ashamed - but rather because she is staring at him in a way that he knows demands answers - answers that he just isn’t prepared to give.

Is he ashamed of what he’s done? A little. But not nearly as much as he should be. If he’s honest, when he thinks of everything he’s done, it all feels very far away from him. Keith knows what he did and why he did it, but rather it’s the expectation that it must be _explained_ that rends him most. So he tries not to look at her, tries not to acknowledge the things he knows she’s about to ask.

“Keith?” Her tone is soft, but to the point.

Keith knows she wants a reply - expects one - but he isn’t compelled to give it.

“Keith…” Pidge tries again, a little less gentle this time, “Keith, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

That gets his attention.

He cranes his head in her general direction and meets her eyes for the first time since she arrived.

“Help me?” Keith chuckles. The incredulity of his tone is barely hidden, “And how would you like to… _help_ me?”

“There-... You’ve got options, Keith...” She pauses as Keith takes a slow step closer towards the barrier that divides them, “We could- we could try to appeal the verdict. Buy some time… Listen, Hunk, Lance, and I… I feel like we’re on top of uncovering something _big_ . We’ve been finding some really weird stuff out in the desert, and I think it could be part of _all_ of this…”

Her lip trembles for a split second, and Keith can immediately see the vulnerability and hope she’s tried so hard to hide throughout this whole ordeal. He can’t stand to see it because he knows that beneath the cracks, she holds the belief that perhaps Keith is good. That perhaps he didn’t do the things he did… It’s more than he deserves from her.

“I don’t want to appeal the verdict,” Keith tells her, not bothering to acknowledge everything else she had said. He punctuates every word; tries not to sound too sardonic but he can’t help it. He strides another foot closer to the barrier, watching Pidge’s carefully-trained facade falter and flinch under his gaze. “Too much paperwork,” he quips.

“God _damnit_!,” Pidge blurts. Her chair screeches across the floor as she stands, “For _once_ , could you take this seriously? They are going to _hang you_ , Keith. Whether you did it or not, this verdict means-”

Keith stops her there, cuts her off before she can say anymore.

“Whether I did it or _not_?,” He asks, moving to stand as close to the barrier as he can without burning himself, “Look at me, Katie.” He uses her real name - knows it’ll get her attention.

Her wavering eyes meet his and he speaks low and steady; he doesn’t want any lingering doubts in her mind, “I don’t _want_ to appeal the verdict because there’s nothing to appeal. I’m guilty - I did everything they said I did. I crushed a man’s windpipe with my _bare_ .. _hands…_ I broke jaws, tore flesh, gouged eyes. I washed people’s blood out from underneath my fingernails like it was _dirt_ ….”

Keith’s jaw tightens; he ignores the warm slick of a tear that ekes its way down his cheek.

“There’s no _if,_ Katie.”

Pidge doesn’t reply, and with that, Keith swallows the lump in his throat and steps away from the barrier and turns his back on her.

From behind him, Pidge’s feet shuffle on the floor, the quiet sound of oscillating footsteps, and Keith is sure she’s considering leaving. He knows that footfall. He knows that frustration. But she doesn’t leave. The legs of the chair screech across the floor once more, and Keith turns to see Pidge plopping back down into the chair, much closer to the barrier this time - well past the white boundary line she isn’t supposed to cross. She clenches her hands in her lap and silently demands Keith’s gaze once more.

“Then I want to know why. I think that’s the _least_ you could give me...”

Keith swallows and dares a glance at her again over his shoulder.

“‘Why’ what?,” He asks, even though he knows already.

“Why you did it…. What happened to you? Wh-” Her voice cracks and Keith has to turn away from her once again, “We both lost someone on the Kerberos mission… Why did you go crazy and not me?”

“I _didn’t_ go crazy…” Keith murmurs. He’s only halfway convinced of it though.

Pidge stays silent.

“...Where do you want me to start?”

 

**::**


	2. .02.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out [her-paintstrokes'](her-paintstrokes) wonderful art that was done for this chapter. It's truly an incredible piece, I'm so grateful to have been paired with such an amazing artist! Thank you again. :D 
> 
> [Link to come]

**::** _  
_

_“No, this is_ bullshit _, and you know it!” Keith shouts, unable to control the quiver in his voice._

 _“Cadet!” Iverson shouts right back in his face, slamming his hands flat atop his desk, “Watch. Your. Mouth.” His words are tight and punctuated; the anger in his tone stifles whatever Keith was thinking about saying. “You are out of line. Whether you like it or not, I am your commanding officer, and I will_ not _tolerate this sort of insubordination.”_

_Iverson’s face relaxes as Keith stays quiet, but the tension in the room between them remains._

_“I don’t think I need to remind you, Kogane, that you are on_ very _thin ice. Between your behavioral issues over the last few months to your less than stellar academic performance since Private Shirogane’s death,” Keith wines at the word, “the higher-ups are looking for any reason to let you go.”_

_“But sir, I know there has to be somethin-” Keith starts, but Iverson stops him before he can finish the thought._

_“Listen to me, cadet - I know this has been difficult for you. I know how much Private Shirogane meant to you; I_ know _you two were….” Iverson pauses as if searching for a delicate word, “close. But this is a military institution. There is an expected level of poise, dedication, and compliance that you are not meeting. Takashi Shirogane was killed in the line of duty. It is tragic, but it is_ reality _.”_

 _“But we don’t_ know _he’s dead, they’re just mis-”_

 _“He is_ dead _, cadet! The Kerberos Crew has been M.I.A. for over six months now. Their ship was utterly demolished when we recovered it. The chances of their survival are nil and it’s time you accepted that fact.”_

_“But sir-”_

_“Keith. This is the military, do I make myself clear?”_

_Keith doesn’t respond, standing stone-faced as he focuses on the wall behind his superior officer._

_“I will take your silence as a ‘yes’. These missions can be dangerous; nothing is risk free. Private Shirogane knew that when he enlisted and when he accepted that position. As did you; isn’t that right?”_

_Keith bites his lip - the urge to spit in this man’s face flares in his gut. He has to clench his teeth to swallow the acid back down._

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“Sometimes… bad things just happen. It is unfortunate, Keith, what happened to the Kerberos team. It is tragic what happened to your… friend,” Iverson tells him; his voice is softer now, attempting to be gentle, but Keith can tell he struggles with the sentiment of tragedy. “It was a tragic accident… But sometimes people die, cadet. Sometimes we lose the people we care for. And it is difficult - but we pick ourselves up and we_ move on _.”_

_Keith yearns to speak, to argue, to fight for the truth he has been aching for, but he suddenly doesn’t have it in him. A slow and steady weight settles across his chest - overbearing under the burden of Iverson’s words - until all he can do is force himself to breathe._

_“Keith,” Iverson continues. His tone is more commanding now, rid of any remnants of softness it might have had just a fraction earlier. “You are a Class A fighter pilot. Your team depends on you for life and limb. Your performance in the field can literally cost or save lives: would you risk the lives of your team? Would you risk the lives of Cadet Gunderson or Garret because of your own emotions?”_

_Keith doesn’t respond - unsure if he even has an answer for that question._

_“I certainly hope you would not,” Iverson continues, “As such, we_ cannot _have a cadet of your standing falling so behind. Either shape up… or we will let you go.”_

_“I’ll be discharged?”_

_“Yes, cadet. If you do not show improvement, you will be discharged.”_

**::**

The shack is little more than a shell in the wake of Shiro’s absence.

It’s always been a desolate place - a lonely little hut in the middle of the desert’s empty heat. But even with its isolation, Shiro’s presence had always made it feel like home. Without him, the place is nothing but a tomb. The days are hot and dry; dusty breezes filter in through the windows like rescue breaths. The nights are cold, devoid of any remnant of the daytime heat.

Keith hates this place, but it’s all he has now. It’s all he has left of the life he used to have.  

He sits alone on his bed; it’s an old, rickety thing that he and Shiro used to share. He sits with his back against the headboard and stares at the open closet across from him. Inside hang the few clothes that he owns next to the empty hangers where his and Shiro’s Garrison uniforms had once been. Tucked away in the back of the closet, folded into a neat pile, is a single set of Shiro’s old clothes. The only set he has - a pair of boots, pants, a shirt, and a vest. No uniforms - the Garrison demanded all of them back when Keith was expelled. He should have fought harder to at least keep Shiro’s…

All the Garrison did was bury it.

He didn’t attend the funeral. Who wants to watch an empty casket be lowered into the ground? Dead or not, Keith saw little point in burying an empty box.

He was surprised the Garrison had invited him to attend the funeral, given he’d already been booted at that point.

 _Insubordination_.

That was the official reason his superiors gave him when they expelled him.  

Insubordination and unacceptable grades after Takashi Shirogane’s death.

They called it _insubordination_ when Keith refused to say Shiro was dead. It was _insubordination_ when Keith demanded to know what happened and wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

 _Insubordination_ because he wouldn’t swallow their bullshit.

Keith pulls his legs tight against his chest, nose buried between his kneecaps. To his left, the ratty drapes across the window flutter in the desert breeze.

The sun is setting.

Missing, dead, no matter what happened, Keith knows he has to accept that Shiro is gone.

It’s been nine months, and Shiro isn’t coming home.

The sun is setting. Shiro is dead.

And he’s alone.

He presses his face into his legs. His eye sockets press flush against his kneecaps so hard he sees white, then grey, then blissful black. A breath escapes his chest as he slumps down onto his side, body buried in the pillows and blankets in a way that could never mimic the comfort of Shiro’s arms.

**::**

It’s dark when he wakes: dark and _freezing_ in their bedroom. He shouldn’t be surprised; it’s always frigid here at night. Keith cracks his eyes open and sees the curtains wafting in the nighttime breeze.

“Shiro,” he murmurs, “you left the window open.”

Keith balls himself up a little more on his side, trying to ward off a shiver in the chilly room.  

Shiro doesn’t reply, but the bedsprings creak and the mattress jiggles as Shiro shifts and wriggles close to him. Shiro spoons around him, ushering himself as close to Keith as he can. His chest flush against Keith’s back, Shiro contours his body around Keith’s smaller one, enveloping him in warmth. They lie together for a moment, before Shiro’s lips begin to ghost across the nape of his neck. He lingers for a moment, his lips hovering against the sensitive skin of Keith’s nape, and breathes. Keith sighs at his touch and closes his eyes, nuzzling his face into his pillow.

“Mmm, I was dreaming,” Keith mumbles.

Shiro plants a gentle kiss against his nape.

“Oh?”

“I dreamt you went away,” Keith feels Shiro’s nose nuzzle into his hair, “You went away and you didn’t come back.”

Shiro breathes. The hairs on Keith’s neck tickle as Shiro nudges his hair aside to bare more of his neck. Goosebumps litter his skin as Shiro’s mouth opens and nips at the camber of his neck. Keith hisses; the heat of Shiro’s mouth startling in the chilly room.

“What a silly thing to dream…” Shiro tells him. His voice sounds distant - like an echo - and Keith can only blame the blood that’s ringing in his ears. Keith nods absently and leans further into Shiro’s touch.

His heartbeat quickens when Shiro’s teeth graze his flesh. He nips and bites - firm, yet tender - along every tendon and muscle. It sends a jolt straight into the pit of his stomach; Keith can feel himself getting hard.

He presses his body back against Shiro, keeps them flush together as Shiro’s mouth grows more insistent. Keith tries to crane his head around to kiss him, but Shiro doesn’t let him; he opens his mouth hot against Keith’s skin, lathes his tongue across his flesh, sucks marks into his skin that Keith knows he’ll has for days.

Keith is weak beneath his touch - he always is. He can do nothing but whimper and groan as Shiro commands his body with his mouth. He presses his hips back, grinds his ass against Shiro’s crotch. Shiro is just as hard as he is.

God, why does it feel like it’s been so long since he’s felt Shiro’s touch, felt his breath whisper across his skin, felt his body firm against his own?

Keith doesn’t care.

Shiro’s hand grabs his hip in one swift movement. His hand feels hard and jagged, and his fingers so cold that Keith’s skin aches in its grip. He startles at the touch, but doesn’t pull away, too lost in the heat of Shiro’s mouth to care.

“Oh, Shiro,” Keith hums, grinding his ass back once again into Shiro, “Ohh… God- _AHHH_!!”

Keith’s eyes wrench open as Shiro’s teeth sink into the meat of his neck - hard enough to break the skin. He tries to yank away, but Shiro won’t let him. The hand on his waist grips harder; Shiro’s rigid fingers curl and dig against the bone, pointed fingernails scrape his flesh as Keith struggles against him.

The mouth on his neck releases, and Keith knows the bite is bleeding. He squirms again in Shiro’s hold, but the hand on his waist won’t let him go. Keith feels Shiro shift a bit behind him before his other hand has snaked into Keith’s hair. His fingers tighten in one swift movement and wrench Keith’s head around to look at him.

Keith’s face pales.

Shiro’s eyes are glowing - angry, fluorescent yellow - and Keith’s blood is stark and red on his on his lips.

Shiro smiles a wicked grin, bares his teeth - sharp and terrifying - and clucks his tongue.

“You know I’d never leave you here alone.”

“No!” Keith’s eyes fling open as he flails himself awake.

Jolting up into the darkness of his bedroom, it takes Keith a few seconds to realize that he’s alone. His chest heaves, heart racing so hard he can hear the blood pounding in his ears. Keith glances around the darkened room and drags his hand through his hair - it wet; drenched in sweat.

“A dream,” he whispers to himself, “ _Fuck_. Just a dream…”

He fondles at his neck, just to be sure.

The flesh stings when he prods at it, as does his hip, but there’s no actual damage. The ache that he feels just a remnant of a viscerally realistic dream.

Trying to get his breathing under control, Keith crosses his legs and buries his head into his hands. It’s not the first time he’s dreamt of Shiro - it certainly won’t be the last. But this was different.

It felt so real - but dreams usually do.

Keith curls his fingers into his hair and presses his palms into his temples.

He just needs to stop shaking.

**::**

Life after Shiro, life after his discharge, is ritualistic. It’s survival and little more.

There’s little point trying to hunt in the desert: life here is sparse and hard to come by. But he’s learned to trap and snare with some efficiency. Small rabbits, coyotes, even the occasional wildcats all eventually fall victim to a snare. Good enough for food, and the hides are an easy way to make a little money in the towns. He never makes much, but it’s enough for a steady supply of water and power, as well as occasional vegetables or spices he may need. He’s tried a few times to grow his own, but they always die before he can even think of harvesting them.

It’s not a great life, but it is what it is.

It reminds him of how things were after his father left.

Today’s catch was meager - just a couple of skinny rabbits. His other traps had all been set off, but were empty. They could’ve gone off by accident, or the animals could’ve escaped. Or perhaps his catches were taken by some other opportunistic feeder - a bigger animal, or a desert drifter, who knows. He can’t blame them - they’re just trying to survive, like him.

Keith resets a few of them, and the two rabbits back to the shack for cleaning.

In his meager kitchen, he skins and filets the animals with precision. Neither of them have much meat on their bones, but it’s enough for at least a couple meals. Their hides are dull and raggedy - nothing he can sell. He just has to hope that tomorrow’s catches will be better.

Keith leans back and glances into his living area - he’s got a couple pelts and snake skins nailed up on the side wall to dry. They’re almost ready to take to the towns. The money from those should get him through the next week or so, at least.

He does his best to ignore the far wall that’s just within eyeshot. It’s still decked out in maps and notes he’d written and tacked up at the height of his search for Shiro. He needs to take them down, to make room for something more practical. But he can’t bring himself to do it.

So he ignores it and continues cleaning the filets for his meal.

He’s only interrupted when a knock on the door echoes through the shack.  
  
Keith furrows his brow. He rinses his hands of the blood and fur, wipes them on a rag, and heads to the door.

He cracks it open and is surprised to see Pidge, Hunk, and some other guy standing on his porch.

“Oh good, you're here,” Hunk starts, “We weren’t sure if you were home, didn’t see the speeder.”

Keith doesn’t open the door all the way. He leans against the door frame to block off their view from inside.

“It’s around back,” Keith tells them.

“We just wanted… to see how you were doing,” Pidge says. Her voice is soft and delicate, like she’s trying to speak as carefully as she can.

“I’m doing okay,” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either. Keith tilts his head to stare at the stranger standing behind his two former crewmates, “Who’re you?”

“Me?” the guy asks, pointing at himself, “I’m… Lance. Wait, seriously? You don’t remember me?”

Keith narrows his eyes and shakes his head. 

“No, sorry.”

“I’m a _pilot_ , we were in some of the _same classes_...”

Keith furrows his brow - the longer he stares at him, he realizes that he does look sort of familiar.

“Oh right… Weren’t you a cargo pilot?”

Lance glares at him, but doesn’t reply.

“Lance is our team's pilot now,” Hunk informs him. The way he says “our”, it almost feels like he’s trying to still include Keith as being part of their team. But he isn’t anymore, and they all know that.

“Well, congrats.”

 _I'm so glad that my lover's death could work to your advantage,_  It's what he wants to say, but Keith holds his tongue. 

“Keith, we just wanted to make sure you were doing okay. We haven’t heard from you since…”

Pidge doesn’t finish her thought, but Keith knows what she’s trying to say. He hasn’t spoken to either of them since he’d packed his bags and left the Garrison. He’s surprised it took them this long to come out here.

“I’m fine, Pidge… I promise.”

She tries to glance around him into the shack - perhaps just to see how he’s been living these last couple of months - but he doesn’t budge.

“It’s okay to _not_ be fine, you know?” she tries, but Keith only shrugs in response.

He’s not really fine - he knows that. But he’s getting by. There’s no need to drag his former friends into the pit with him.

“We’re uh, we’re going into town later today,” She continues, “Thought you might want to come?”

Keith shakes his head.

“That’s okay.”

“Come on, man, might do you good to get out of this dump.”

Keith shoots a glare at Hunk. He knows he doesn’t mean any harm, but comment stings nonetheless. The shack isn’t glamorous but it’s the only thing he really has left of his family… and of Shiro. It might be a tomb, but his memories haunt this place and he’ll cling to it for as long as he can.

Keith sighs and leans his head against the door frame.

“I’m really okay. But y’all go; have fun.”

Pidge hesitates before nodding.

“Okay… If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. But thanks for asking.”

Keith doesn’t wait for her to reply before trying to close the door. Pidge stops him with an abrupt hand against the panels.

“Keith, wait,” she begs. Keith pauses and releases his hold on the door, letting Pidge push it open a little bit further to see him. “I’m… I’m still trying, you know?”

Keith bites his lip - he knows she’s talking about the Kerberos mission. She’s a gifted hacker - it’s how she weaseled her way into the Garrison in the first place - and Keith knows she’s been digging for more information about the mission, and about her lost family since she got in. It’s part of why they had bonded in the first place.

She understood the desperation that comes with the loss of a loved one.

“I know they’re hiding something,” she tells him, “and I’m still digging, okay? I haven’t given up.”

Keith can’t look at her.

He drops his gaze and sighs, shaking his head.

“They’re dead, Katie. Nothing’s gonna change that.”

Pidge drops her hand off the door, and Keith doesn’t have to look at her to know that she looks hurt.

“I’ll see you guys…” Keith mumbles, and closes the door without another word.

**::**

It takes Keith forever to fall asleep that night. His conversation with his former crewmates on top of memories of that vicious and vivid dream he’d had the night before weigh heavily on his mind. It’s only out of sheer exhaustion that his body finally relinquishes to the depths of sleep.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps, but he knows it can’t have been long when he awakes in the middle of the night. He stirs at the distinct sound of his front door opening and closing. He knows every creak of that door, every click of its handle and latch.

Keith jerks upright in bed at the sound, sitting and waiting in the darkness, listening for any additional noises coming from the front area of the shack. He fumbles underneath his pillow and grabs his knife. With slow, pointed movements, careful not to make any unnecessary noise, he slides the covers off of himself and stands up out of bed.

Keith creeps to the doorway of his bedroom and listens. From the living room he can hear footsteps shuffling about. They’re slow and intermittent as they move - almost unsure in their motions. Keith clenches the handle of his knife, already preparing to have to fight off whatever drifter decided to creep into his home.

He’s willing to give the intruder a chance to leave, but is willing to defend himself if he must.

He tiptoes along the hall towards the front of the house and pauses when he sees a silhouette standing in his living room. Keith approaches, enough so that he can see the person better, but still maintaining his distance. Whoever they are, they’re turned away from Keith, focused on the wall where the pelts and skins are hanging.

From what he can see of the stranger’s silhouette, he’s tall and broad-shouldered. Muscular - the grandeur of his build is apparent even in the moonshadow. He doesn’t look like someone Keith wants to try to fight. But he will if he has to.

“Hey!” Keith shouts, his voice as commanding as he can make it, but the person barely reacts. His head merely tilts a little at the sound of Keith’s exclamation. “Get-get out of my house. I have a weapon and I _will_ use it if I have to. Leave, _now_.”

The figure doesn’t say anything, but he turns around to face Keith and takes a couple steps closer.

Keith is about to yell at him again, to tell him to stop right where he is and not move a muscle, when the man’s face comes into focus in the darkness. Keith’s jaw goes slack, his breath catches on his tongue. He lowers his arms from their offensive stance and his fingers loosen their grip on his knife. It tumbles from his hand, clattering against the shack’s wooden floors with a painful thunk as Keith gawks at the man standing in his living room.

It’s… It’s _Shiro_.

He looks… different. He’s in a solid black bodysuit with a shabby, torn up purple shirt slung over his torso. From what Keith can see of it, his skin is littered with scars, there’s a garish tuft of white in his normally dark hair, his right arm is false - ferrous and grotesque - but it’s _him_. Keith can do nothing but stare.

Shiro stares right back at him, licks his lips, and clears his throat

“Hi, Keith…”

**::**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Shiro's back. You'll be seeing a lot more of him as the fic goes on. Stay tuned. 
> 
> As usual, I always appreciate your feedback/kudos/comments! 
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) and on [twitter](http://twitter.com/commodorecliche).


	3. .03.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never know how to start these chapter notes. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Please be warned that this chapter features hunting/death of an animal (for food). Nothing graphic but I figured it was worth mentioning. 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

**::**

Keith knows that he needs to speak. Dumbfounded, blindsided, standing face to face with a man that had disappeared from his life over a year ago. A man that had been as good as dead for months. A man that Keith had only just accepted was gone.

His heart screams at him to run to Shiro, to fling his arms around him, cling to him and never let go. But there’s a nagging feeling in his gut, a little voice somewhere in the back of his mind that will not let him move. It tells him to hold back. It tells him something is wrong. The flesh of his neck stings from the bite he knows isn’t there, his hip aches from the bruises that never came from his dream’s painful grip.

Keith half-expects to jolt awake into the emptiness of his bedroom any moment now. But he doesn’t.

“No…,” Keith whispers into the darkness.

Shiro takes another hesitant step towards him. Keith shakes his head, debating whether or not he should take a step back.

He doesn’t.

“It can’t be you.”

It’s not what Keith wants to say, but they’re the only words that slither past his teeth. His body is far away from his mouth as it speaks for him.

“It can’t be you… You’re gone, we-we _buried_ you.”

They’d buried a coffin - symbolic more than anything - filled with trinkets and photos and memories that others had stuffed into it. Honorary medals. Sashes and clothing. A dried out desert flower that Shiro had given Keith years ago. They’d buried a coffin, but they’d buried Shiro. It hadn’t been the final nail, but it had been enough to burn the true possibility of Shiro’s death into Keith’s head.  

But here he stands: changed, somber, but Shiro nonetheless.

Shiro doesn’t advance any further, giving Keith whatever space he needs. He shuffles a nervous hand through his hair - the hand that Keith is just now realizing is likely no longer even human - and sighs.

“I’ll admit that wasn’t really the greeting I was expecting,” Shiro tells him; his voice is low and soft. It is gentle and vulnerable in a way that bores straight into Keith’s chest like a blade.

Shiro is disappointed: he’s _sad_. And it’s because of Keith.

He’d wanted to be welcomed home, for Keith to be happy to see him, and Keith had gaped at him like a phantom instead. That realization heaves onto his shoulders and in an instant, the nagging voice in his head goes quiet and instinct takes him over instead.

Keith closes the distance between them in three steps. His body collides with Shiro’s so hard that Shiro staggers under its force. But Shiro’s envelopes him without a moment’s hesitation. Keith’s arms cling to him, the burning in his gut painful as he clutches at Shiro’s body, face buried in his chest.

His body feels so different - harder now than it was before, larger, uneven from the scars Keith can feel even through Shiro’s shirt.

Shiro buries his face into Keith’s neck as he holds him, breathes him in deeply. His breath is barely there - faint and far away - but it’s a warm tingle across his skin, and Keith can only grapple at him harder. Keith drags one hand up the expanse of Shiro’s back, every part of him trembling as he tries to dig his fingers deep into his flesh, to hold him close and never let him go. His hand eases its way up to the nape of Shiro’s neck, touching his skin for the first time in god knows how long.

But he’s cold to the touch.

Keith tries not to think about it.

Face buried into Shiro’s neck, Keith’s words tumble into Shiro’s skin before he can stop them.

“They told me to give up. They said you were gone and weren’t coming back.”

He’s on the verge of tears, fighting hard to hold them back, but he doesn’t know if he can. Shiro shakes his head, his hair tickling Keith’s skin as he moves. He lifts his head from the curve of Keith’s throat to stare down at him. With tender hands, Shiro cups the angles of his jaw, but they’re cold to the touch and send goosebumps skittering across Keith’s flesh. But Keith can hardly bring himself to care. He stares up at Shiro, letting himself be held, cradled gently the same way Shiro used to do as Shiro looks back down at him. He leans down and presses his lips to Keith’s forehead. When he speaks, his lips are hesitant to break their contact with Keith.

“God, you know I’d never leave you here alone…”

A shiver jolts through Keith’s body. The room is suddenly too quiet, like he’s underwater, the sound muffled and distant as he pulls his head back from Shiro a bit. He stares up at him with furrowed brows; that nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach is back as he focuses on Shiro’s face. But Shiro doesn’t give him time to think about it before he cranes down to claim Keith’s lips, hands still cradling Keith’s face.

His lips are chapped and raw - they lack their usual warmth and familiarity - but they still feel like Shiro’s. He still smells like Shiro, his tongue still tastes like him, and Keith can’t help but be swept in by him.

Shiro kisses him and god does Keith let him in.

**::**

The night is quiet in the desert; when Keith urges Shiro to bed, it’s well past the midnight hours. They don’t talk - not about where Shiro has been, how he’s come back, or what he had to do to get there. When Keith asks, the two of them lying side-by-side in the bed they share, Shiro looks distraught and insists they can talk more about it tomorrow. Keith figures that’s okay.

Shiro is quick to sleep - no surprise, really. Keith is sure he must be exhausted; god only knows what he’s been through. So Keith lets him sleep, lying close against his body, savoring the feeling of him even if he doesn’t hold the same warmth he used to. A consequence of time spent in trauma, Keith supposes.

Keith struggles to rest. Shiro doesn’t stir once throughout the night. Keith had thought there might be nightmares - but there’s nothing. He doesn’t move, doesn’t twitch; his breath is low, if it’s there at all.

Shiro sleeps like the dead.

Keith doesn’t want to know what that means, and he tries not to think about it as he scoots himself even closer into Shiro’s side. He curls his body around Shiro’s and falls into restless sleep, aching just to feel Shiro breathing beside him.

He does breath. But just barely.

**::**

In the morning, Keith cooks for them both. Shiro sits at the table, a full cup of coffee in front of him, still in the same clothes he wore the day before. Keith had urged him to changed - presented him with the spare set of clothes he’d kept for him. But Shiro hadn’t even acknowledged them.

Keith finishes the breakfast - a couple of eggs he’d gotten from the market in the town - watching to see if Shiro will touch the coffee or water in front of him. But he never does. He simply watches Keith cook.

Keith makes Shiro’s eggs sunny-side up: the way he remembers Shiro always used to eat his them. But with the plate of food sitting in front of him, Shiro doesn’t even move to touch it. Keith eats his in silence, until all of it is gone and Shiro hasn’t so much as prodded at his plate to move the food around.

He wants to question it, but something tells him not to. Something inside him tells him he won’t like whatever answer he gets if he asks.

Keith cleans up without a word. Shiro, to his credit, offers to help, but Keith turns him down. He gathers Shiro’s plate and dumps the eggs in the trash - his fridge isn’t great and he knows the eggs won’t keep. Plus, he knows neither of them will eat them anyway. Shiro doesn’t protest. He dumps the plates in the sink, tells himself he’ll wash them later, and returns to sit across from Shiro at the table once again.

They don’t speak, but Shiro reaches out to hold Keith’s hand that’s resting atop the table. He makes sure to use his still-human hand; Keith hasn’t bothered to ask about what happened to his arm. It’s yet another question he doesn’t know if he actually wants answered. Despite the undeniable humanity of the hand that grips his own, Keith can’t help but note that it’s cold to the touch. Like the rest of Shiro seems to be. It feels as cold and inhuman as Keith imagines the metal prosthetic would feel.

Keith doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the man sitting in the chair across from him.

Shiro stares back. There is vulnerability and openness on his face, but somehow Keith doesn’t know for sure that he can trust it. Keith inhales deeply and inches his hand out from underneath Shiro’s and stands from the table.

“You should change out of those clothes,” Keith insists for the second time since Shiro had returned, “I need to go check my traps. You can come if you like.”

**::**

The desert is hot, even in the morning hours.

The breeze is warm - just on the cusp of uncomfortably so - and even in the cloud cover, Keith can feel the sweat prickling across his skin as he makes his way across the barren terrain. The heat doesn’t seem to bother Shiro, but Keith decides not to follow that train of thought.

He decides instead to simply be happy to have his company once again. He looks more like himself now - wearing that old outfit that Keith had grown to love all those years ago, long before he and Shiro had even enlisted in the Garrison. The sight of it on his body puts him at least. He fills it out differently now; the fabric pulls a little more tightly across his chest than it used to, the sleeves strain around his biceps, but it’s still a familiar sight. Keith is grateful for it.

It’s a good enough distraction from all the niggling feelings that have been bubbling inside him since last night, at least. However long it will last, Keith is happy to entertain it.

The catch is favorable, especially for a morning - at least seven of his traps had been set off some time in the night, and six of them had snared a fresh kill. The game are varied in size, from mid-sized birds and rabbits to a coyote pup; a couple of traps even got snakes. The snakes aren’t always the best to eat, but the skins are useful. They sell well, so Keith’s happy to see them.

He gathers the game in his satchel, resets the snares, and makes his way towards the last of the traps. Shiro trails him without objection, observing and moving wherever Keith directs him. He helps when Keith asks him to, stays hands-off when Keith asks him to as well. It’s easy.

But it doesn’t feel right.

Two of the three remaining traps are empty, but set off. He resets them and gestures to Shiro for them to head out towards the last one.

“So,” Keith starts, slowing his stride to walk at Shiro’s side, “Have you gone by the Garrison yet?”

Shiro stops dead in his tracks and Keith pauses only when he realizes Shiro isn’t beside him anymore. Keith turns back and stares at him and shoots him an expectant shrug.

“Of course not,” Shiro asserts. His voice is far harsher than Keith had expected.

“Why not?” Keith gestures for the two of them to continue. The day is getting hotter and he doesn’t want to spend any more time out here than he has to. Shiro is reluctant to follow, but he trots to catch up to Keith anyway.

“That’s the _last_ place I want to go,” He says as he comes back to Keith’s side.

“Oh?”

Keith can see the snare in the distance. It’s hard to tell from so far away, but he thinks he can see there’s something caught in it.

“They left me for dead.”

“Fair enough.”

Keith wants to agree more readily - because he’s just as angry with the Garrison as Shiro appears to be. But something still feels off. Keith can’t help but wonder how Shiro had figured the Garrison had given up on the Kerberos team, aside from Keith mentioning it last night.

Maybe he’s reading too much into this.

“What about the others?”

“The others?”

That gives Keith pause. He exhales a low breath and glances over at Shiro.

“Yeah, the others. Your _team_ . Matt… and Dr. Holt. What about _them_?”

“Oh,” Shiro hums, like the realization is only just now settling over him, “them. I suppose they’re okay… Can’t say for sure. We were kept separated.”

Keith wants to ask what that means, but something tells him not to. It’s that same nagging feeling that makes him think he might not like the answers to some of these questions. So he doesn’t ask.

“Okay. Should I tell Katie, then?”

Once again, Shiro looks confused.

“Katie?”

“Yes, _Katie_.”

Shiro pauses, before shaking his head as if he’d suddenly remembered a distant, forgotten thought.

“Oh… Katie. No, god, _no_ , don’t tell her anything.”

“Nothing? Nothing at all?” Keith prods.

“I don’t… want to give her false hope.”

“Not even about you being back?”

“She wouldn’t understand, Keith…”

Keith scoffs.

“Understand _what_?”

But he doesn’t get an answer as the two of them approach the final trap. He was right though - there’s something caught in it. Sitting in the trap is a live rabbit youngling, it’s foot ensnared in the device’s wire.

This is a fairly gentle trap, at least compared to many of his others. It’s just a basic wire snare. It’s good for small game - doesn’t injure them much unless they really struggle. This kit clearly hasn’t struggled - it sits still and calm in its bondage as Keith and Shiro approach. This live, mostly-unharmed catch stands in stark contrast to the game of earlier - no broken neck, no bloody, ragged wounds from trap-teeth, no exposed flesh from struggle, no obvious signs of distress.

He admires the creature for its patience.

Keith crouches down by it and the rabbit lets out a nervous screech. He eyes it carefully - the back foot that’s tangled in Keith’s snare is hardly damaged. The kit would probably be fine if he were to let it go. Keith takes a glance into his bag and counts the catches they’ve gathered so far. It’s been a good haul today, so he doesn’t see much need to keep a small creature like this.

Well-placed mercy is a virtue a hunter should have; that’s what he’s always believed.

He scruffs the rabbit by the neck gently, just to keep it still so it can’t bite him, as he moves to undo the snare.

Suddenly, Shiro crouches by his side.

“What are you doing?” Shiro asks, voice a mixture of confusion and incredulity.

Keith pauses his work on the tie around the animal’s foot.

“Letting it go - it’s small and it’s not injured badly. No need to take it in.”

“Its back foot is hurt.”

Keith just shrugs and goes back to untying the snare.

“It’s not bad.”

“It’s bad enough,” Shiro insists. “Look at it… such a tender, little thing. It won’t last a day out there.”

Keith stops again and shoots a glare towards Shiro, brow furrowed.

As a hunter, it’s important to know the value of mercy. Keith believes that; Shiro used to, as well. There’s a guise of grace here, but his words do not feel merciful.

“It’ll be okay.”

“No,” Shiro insists, voice more firm this time, “It’ll die. So let's just kill it and take it back with us.

“We have enough,” Keith insists right back, but his fingers still hesitate to release the animal. He feels the rabbit twitch against where he has it scruffed.

Shiro inches closer to him, voice low and private as he hunches down by Keith’s side.

“Keith,” Shiro starts. His voice is so soft, so tender, like it’s trying to weasel its way into Keith’s head. “Its leg is hurt. It’s small. It won’t make it out there on its own like this…” Shiro pauses and leans just a fraction closer, whispering low and slow, “We can take it back with us. Just kill it and be done with it.”

Keith doesn’t move; he stares at the animal in his grip. Like this, its life is _his_ to grant or deny, and Keith feels sick and powerful just thinking about it.

Like a whisper slithering up from the darkest parts of his head, Shiro’s voice creeps into his ear.

“Just kill it.”

Shiro’s voice is usually so soft, but not now. It’s foreign to him now - but Keith can’t help but listen to him.

He tries not to think as he reaches down with his other hand and with one quick twist, he snaps the young rabbit’s neck.

Shiro grips his shoulder, a cold touch, even through his shirt, and squeezes with reassurance as he stands.

“Good job; it’ll be a good extra meal.”

Keith unties the dead animal from its bonds with solemn hands and slides it into the satchel with the others. He watches as Shiro turns away and begins his trek back to the shack, leaving Keith in his wake. He glances down at the trap, moves to reset it, but stops short with another glance at Shiro’s form.

Fuck it. He’ll leave it unset.

He turns back to Shiro and trots after him - calling for him to wait as they head back.

**::**


	4. .04.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to dub this chapter _"something's up with Shiro"_.

**::**

Keith makes quick work of skinning and filleting the catches. It’s a skill he’s developed to precision over the long months spent alone, scavenging to survive. He’s just thankful he’s got power at this damn hovel. 

He pins the skins to the wall of the mudroom to let them dry, and checks on the others that have almost cured. They’re just about ready to take to town; he’ll need to make a trip in soon. 

Some of the filets he stores in the freezer. Much like the fridge, the freezer isn’t very powerful, but the meat should keep for long enough for them to eat. A couple other slabs of meat he sets out in the desert sun to cure and dry for jerky. 

That evening, he cooks the rabbit youngling’s meat. It’s young enough that he figures the meat will be soft - good for stew. Its small body doesn’t make much for a meal though, and he does his best to supplement with the potatoes and carrots he’d gotten from the market. He needed to use them anyway or they’d rot. 

Just like at breakfast, Keith slides a bowl of stew to Shiro, but Shiro makes no move to touch it. 

Keith eyes him with caution - there’s something painfully off about him, and Keith knows it. But perhaps it’s his desperate affection for the man who sits across from him, but part of him won’t let him fully acknowledge the oddness. Denial won’t make the feelings go away, though. 

Keith eats and Shiro fiddles. As Keith consumes with steady bites, Shiro moves his food around the bowl, pushes the stew from side to side without bringing a single taste to his lips. He never eats it. He hasn’t eaten since he arrived, and it’s not something Keith hasn’t noticed. 

Before Keith knows it, his own bowl is empty, his hungry stomach sated for the moment, while Shiro’s is as uneaten as it was 15 minutes ago. Keith stares at Shiro’s pallid face, tries to understand why Shiro simply stares at the now cold stew sitting in front of him, but he just can’t grasp it. He’s missing something. Keith waits for only another beat before standing and reaching to gather Shiro’s still-full bowl of food. 

“So much for an extra meal,” Keith quips as he steps away from the table. 

As he moves towards the sink, he hears Shiro’s chair slide across the floor. 

“Let me help,” Shiro says, moving to follow Keith. 

“Leave it,” Keith snaps before Shiro can even take a step. He doesn’t miss the look of hurt on Shiro’s face at the harshness of his tone, and Keith breathes a sigh, forces himself to soften his voice as he continues, “I’ll just... save it for later.” 

Shiro doesn’t respond, but he sits back down at the table nonetheless, watching as Keith moves about the kitchen to clean up. He covers Shiro’s uneaten bowl of stew, stows it away in the fridge and hopes it will keep. 

He knows it won’t be good after more than a day in this fridge. But he can lie to himself for a little while and pretend that Shiro might actually eat it later. 

Keith cleans the kitchen like a ritual: dishes scrubbed and put back in their cupboards, counters clear of entrails and fur, no signs left of the death that had fed him. He soaks the knives and wipes them clean of the blood that had crusted and dried on their blades. He keeps them in a neat line on the counter - a reminder to himself to sharpen them later.

In these moments, he and Shiro exist in silence. With Shiro sitting quiet at the table, and Keith wiping up any last bits of grit in the sink, Keith tries his best to pretend that things are the way they used to be. He remembers a time when Shiro would sit at that very table, sipping a warm mug of tea and poring over his studies and flight plans while Keith would busy himself like he is now. He remembers comfortable silence. 

He remembers Shiro, remembers a gentleness that used to exist in the quiet between them. 

This isn’t that kind of silence, though. This isn’t that same softness that used to span the spaces between them. And Keith knows it. 

“So,” Keith murmurs from where he stands at the sink. He keeps his back to Shiro, not yet ready to face him, “you ever plan on telling me where the hell you’ve been?” 

There’s a pause while he waits for Shiro to respond. But all he can hear is the sound of the rag dragging across the porcelain walls of the already-clean sink. Keith licks his lips and shudders out a breath. 

“You gunna tell me anything at all? Like what happened to you, why you look the way you do?” 

Keith doesn’t mean for his voice to crack, but he can’t stop the waver in his words as he forces them past his teeth. He doesn’t need to look at Shiro to envision that grotesque metal prosthetic or the scars that mar his skin - clear as a picture in his head. He doesn’t need to look at Shiro or hear his voice to know that something has changed, and that Shiro’s hiding something. 

Keith waits a few more patient moments, scrubs the white walls of the sink even harder, gives Shiro ample time to speak. But he’s met with the same tense, uncomfortable silence that has reigned in this kitchen over the last hour, and Keith breaks. 

He slings the rag down into the sing with a wet plop and slams both hands on the counter. He locks his arms, shoulders firm as he leans heavy against the counter’s surface. He hangs his head, tries to keep calm, teeth clenched so hard that his jaw aches as he tries to stop the shaking breaths that force past his nose. 

“Why don’t you eat?” Keith grits out, clenching his eyes shut and trying to stop the tremor in his jaw, “Why won’t you fucking  _ eat _ ?” 

He wants an answer. He wants an answer to all the questions he hasn’t been brave enough to ask since Shiro had reappeared in his living room just the night before. He wants a goddamn  _ answer  _ that Shiro seems reluctant to give him. 

It only takes a few more beats of silence for Keith to realize Shiro won’t reply. He curls his fingers across the counter, feels the way his nails scrape across the decrepit wood. 

“You don’t eat,” Keith hisses, “You don’t drink.” 

He drags his head up, the bones in his neck cracking as he does, and turns around to stare at Shiro. Shiro doesn’t answer him, but he keeps his eyes fixed on Keith, and for once in Keith’s life, he can’t read Shiro’s expression. 

Keith takes a step closer, eyes never leaving Shiro. 

“You’re cold as fuckin’ death, and you look goddamn anemic. Half the time when I look at you,” Keith continues, closing the distance between them until he’s towering over Shiro, “I can’t even tell you’re breathing.” 

Shiro won’t break their gaze, but there’s something in Shiro’s eyes that tells Keith he’s nervous. Good. Keith hopes he’s looming over him, hopes he’s an imposing figure. He’s never really felt strong - Shiro had always been the strong one - and even now he doesn’t. But as Keith glares down at the person sat at his kitchen table, it hardly even looks like Shiro. And the unease in Shiro’s expression emboldens Keith, strengthens the ill-begotten resolve that’s thrumming in his chest. 

Keith lifts his hands and cups Shiro’s jaw on either side. Soft enough to remind himself of the affection he harbors for Shiro, but firm enough to lock their gazes, to demand answers. 

He hopes it’s threatening. 

Shiro stares up at him with wide eyes, tongue darting out to lick his pallid lips. Keith notes the way they quiver as they open to speak. 

“Keith…” 

“You,” Keith starts, voice a harsh whisper as he steels himself, “you look so much like him. What  _ are  _ you?”  

Shiro shakes his head - it’s a feeble protestation, but Shiro tries to refute the implications of Keith’s question nonetheless. 

“It… It wasn’t easy to come here, Keith. It took a lot...” Shiro whispers, his voice meek, like he’s been caught in a lie. 

Keith’s fingers curl as they cradle Shiro’s jaw, fingernails dragging across the chilled flesh of his companion’s face. 

“That’s not an answer,” Keith demands. His voice is cracked, and his head is starting to ache from the hardened clench of his jaw. 

“I’m… I’m me. I’m Shiro.” 

Keith shakes his head and tightens his hold on Shiro’s cold face; hopes that the force of his grip might stir a little warmth in Shiro’s flesh. 

“No. You look like him, but you aren’t him, so what  _ are you _ ?” 

“I’m  _ me _ ,” Shiro insists. Keith knows by the pleading tone of his voice that it’s not a lie - but it’s not the truth either. 

Keith stares down into Shiro’s eyes, so much paler than he remembers them being, lacking all the warm grey tones they’d one had. They’re as listless as a gravestone now. Keith scrapes his nails along Shiro’s jaw once more, blinking away the angry sting of tears that threaten his eyes.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Keith breathes, shaking his head and releasing Shiro with a frustrated scoff, “I knew it. I  _ knew  _ it was too good to be true.” 

Keith turns away and heads out of the room, unable to stare into the eyes of a pretender. Behind him, he hears the chair scrape across the floor as Shiro stands and darts after him. 

“Keith, wait!,” Shiro pleads. He tries to grab hold of Keith’s hand, but Keith yanks it away the minute he touches him. 

“Keith,  _ listen _ to me,” Shiro begs, and despite everything inside him telling him to walk away, Keith still stops and turns to face him. “This wasn’t easy, okay? It wasn’t easy to get here. But I had to see you…” 

Shiro takes a hesitant step closer, but Keith scoffs and shakes his head. He shoves at Shiro’s chest, forcing space between them.

“Oh please, so the fuck are you then? A ghost? A demon? A goddamn hallucination hanging around just to make sure I can’t move on?,” Keith gives Shiro another frantic shove, “Fucking  _ what _ ?” 

Shiro tries to step closer to Keith again, to bridge the gap, but Keith only pushes him away more forcefully. Shiro stops himself before he tries again and stares at Keith. There’s an expression that mars his features that Keith almost wants to call heartbreak, but Keith just can’t believe that. 

Shiro shakes his head and offers Keith a weak shrug as he stares at the floor. 

“I don’t know…” 

Keith huffs and turns away. Standing in the kitchen doorway, he can’t bring himself to actually leave the room, but he won’t look back at Shiro anymore. Keith braces his arms on the doorway, clenches his fingers around the old wood so hard that the splinters threaten to puncture the flesh of his fingertips. 

“Get out,” Keith demands, voice barely above a whisper.

“What?” 

“I said: get out.” 

Keith doesn’t wait for Shiro’s response. On heavy heels, he strides out of the room and heads back to their - no -  _ his  _ bedroom. Behind him, he can hear the soft pattering of Shiro’s footfalls as he rushes after him. When Shiro dares to breach the doorway of the bedroom they used to share, Keith spins to face him and pushes at his chest again. 

“I told you to  _ leave. _ ” 

“Keith,” Shiro catches his arms before Keith can shove him again, “Keith,  _ listen  _ to me,” there’s just enough desperation in Shiro’s voice to give Keith pause, “I came here for  _ you _ . It wasn’t easy, either. I can’t just go  _ back _ …. It doesn’t work like that.” 

Keith’s breath grows shaky as he stares up at Shiro - he’s unable to stop the quiver in his lips or the stinging in his eyes. He twitches his wrists in Shiro’s grasp, but Shiro doesn’t let him go. 

This isn’t his Shiro. It can’t be. 

His Shiro is gone. It’s a fact he’s forced himself to swallow like a razorblade. 

But god if this stranger doesn’t look like him. God if he doesn’t sound like him. 

God if Keith doesn’t  _ want  _ this to be him. 

Keith shakes his head, trying to stave off the angry tears threatening to spill across his cheeks. 

“Are you dead?” Keith whispers, voice already cracking, “If you’re dead… then leave me in peace…” 

Shiro’s hands loosen their grip on his wrists and slide up the length of Keith’s arms, past his shoulders, up to cradle the gentle camber of Keith’s throat. 

“Please…” Shiro pleads, one hand - his prosthetic hand - lifting from Keith’s neck to cup his cheek. His thumb strokes across Keith’s cheek with the same tenderness Shiro has always reserved for him. 

He doesn’t answer Keith’s question, but Keith doesn’t need him to to know the truth. 

“Please, Keith…” Shiro pleads, “I’m _sorry_. I know this isn’t what you were hoping for. But I’m here now, so please don’t turn me away. I can’t go back...” 

Keith’s resolve crumbles as he stares up at Shiro. Shiro strokes his thumb across the skin of Keith’s cheek again - comforting, supportive, loving. 

“Don’t turn me away,” He whispers, leaning down to claim Keith’s lips. 

He wants to kiss him, but Shiro pauses nonetheless before his mouth can touch Keith’s. He always waits, always listens for Keith’s approval before he ever makes a move. It’s what Shiro has  _ always  _ done - always so careful to make sure the two of them were on the same page before moving forward. 

This isn’t Shiro - and yet, it  _ could  _ be. It could be him. It feels like him. Looks like him. 

He might not be the same. 

Might not even be alive.

But it could be him. 

And Keith can’t stop himself from buckling under the gravity of Shiro’s presence.

When Shiro closes the distance between them, his lips press like ice against Keith’s own, but the spark that ignites deep in Keith’s gut at the touch of them is hot enough to warm them both. Goddamn, how he’s  _ missed  _ this - lips, mouth, voice, touch - he’s craved it every single day since Shiro first abandoned him on this rock all those months ago. 

This isn’t Shiro. Keith knows it. Or at least, this isn’t the Shiro he remembers. 

But it’s good enough. It looks like him. Sounds like him. Kisses him in all the same ways Shiro used to. And Keith has missed this so direly that he’s almost willing to settle. 

Shiro is everywhere. His hands - human or otherwise - skim and touch; they take Keith in as their mouths open against each other. He’s an overwhelming force, and Keith can only hope to hold on. 

Before he knows it, Shiro is lowering the two of them to the bed. Back pressed against the mattress, Shiro’s arm caged around him protectively, Keith arches and cants his body up into every motion. Every caress of Shiro’s lips sends fervent chills across his body, every touch is painful, burning heat, and Keith is weak beneath it all. 

Keith has never felt strong - not compared to Shiro. And beneath this overwhelming force, so different and yet so similar to the man who left him so many months ago, Keith feels smaller than ever. It feels off, it feels different, but god, does he loves it. 

Because he’s  _ missed  _ this. 

Shiro’s mouth slants against his own, pries his lips open with a warm, seeking tongue. He grinds his body down against Keith - so heavy, so powerful as he overtakes him - but Keith responds to every movement in kind. His legs splay open of their own accord, desperate to roll his hips up into Shiro’s as his hands frantically clutch at Shiro’s jaw to pull him closer, deeper. 

Against his lips, Shiro tries to speak; heaved, uneven words try to slither into Keith’s mouth as they kiss. 

“Keith,” Shiro hums, “God, I missed-”

“Shhh”, Keith interjects before Shiro can finish. He doesn’t want to hear it. He thrusts his tongue deep into Shiro’s mouth just to silence him. 

He isn’t ready for words right now. He wraps his legs more tightly around Shiro’s waist, shucks his hands up underneath Shiro’s shirt to shed him of it. His fingers feel canyons of scar tissue - deep marks in flesh that had once been smooth and soft to touch. Keith curls his fingers, digs his nails into the skin, thrusts his hips up against Shiro’s once again. 

This isn’t his Shiro - this isn’t the Shiro who breathed, and smiled, and laughed with him. This isn’t the Shiro that lived and loved him - and he’s almost okay with that fact. That Shiro is gone; maybe this is the closest thing he’ll ever get again. 

Their clothes are gone within a few seconds, Keith’s frenetic hands rushing to tug and strip and tear them off as he aches for Shiro’s touch. 

The metal of Shiro’s prosthetic is a jarring touch against his skin, but Keith is just gone enough not to care. He takes the stinging chill of it in stride, lets Shiro caress it across his body, to feel him with a hand that had once had blood and life pumping through it. He swallows kisses from lips that had once been plus and warm, and it doesn’t feel right, but Keith is so desperate for this that he can’t resist it.

When Keith lets Shiro’s fingers slip into him, Shiro coos - a gentle purr against the flesh of his neck, teeth grazing across his pulse point in a way that makes his throat sting with pain. Hot memories of the fangs that had dug into the meat of his throat in his dreams fresh in his mind. But Shiro’s teeth don’t sink in - only his fingers do as they probe deeper, harder, stretching Keith too rushed, too fast. He’s barely ready by the time Shiro enters him - a long, deep thrust sheathing himself deeply inside Keith with a low moan. 

“You’ve missed this,” Shiro grunts against his mouth as he kisses him again. It’s a statement, not a question, no room for Keith to disagree. 

It’s true though. He has missed this. He’s missed everything about this, everything except for that tickling feeling of unfamiliarity that has skulked back into the depths of his chest for now. 

Shiro’s words are hot against his lips - a stark, welcome contrast to the chill that pervades Shiro’s flesh now. 

Keith digs his fingernails into Shiro’s skin once again, scraping across his back as Shiro begins to fuck him in a slow, steady rhythm. He doesn’t care how hard his digging into Shiro, or the way Shiro hisses at the sting - he wants to leave bright, red marks across his flesh, wants to give it color again, wants to remember what this skin looked like when there was life brewing in it. 

Keith’s legs stay wrapped around Shiro’s waist like a vice - unwilling, unable to let him go as he urges Shiro to push harder, to fuck into him more deeply. 

He’d forgotten how overwhelming this force could be; had forgotten how this touch, this love could so easily uproot him. 

Keith comes just moments before Shiro, body tensing with every onslaught of pleasure that courses through him. When Shiro comes, he collapses down on top of Keith, like he always used to do. But the weight of him is lacking its same familiar comfort. Keith lies still, coming down from the heady buzz of his orgasm, as the weight of a corpse bears down on his chest.

**::**


	5. .05.

Shiro sleeps through the night without a single stir. But he never seems to stir anymore, anyway. 

Keith, on the other hand, doesn’t sleep a wink. 

The sensation of Shiro’s touch, his body reigning over him, pressing inside of him, still pulses hard in his memory. It’s overbearing, almost too much for Keith in the darkened hours of the evening. Even with the foot of space that exists between them now, Keith feels far too close. 

Sleeping next to a dead man isn’t something Keith thought he’d ever have to come to terms with; and yet here he is. 

Curled on his side, his back to Shiro, Keith lies awake throughout the night. His skin still tingles from the chilling touch of Shiro’s fingers. His neck still throbs and aches - the remnant of a dream that hasn’t left his body’s consciousness. His throat still stings as if the flesh had been punctured, pierced by the brazen teeth of a figment of his lover Keith had dreamt up. 

He can’t bring himself to roll over and look at Shiro’s slumbering form. Can’t bring himself to wonder if he even sleeps at all, or if he simply lies there and pretends for Keith’s sake. 

The sun rises across the desert horizon and Keith still hasn’t slept. He’s tired - flat out exhausted - but another day begins, like it always does, and he has to get up. The first light of day seeps in through the sheer curtains and Keith is already standing out of bed and moving to get dressed. Shiro stirs as soon as Keith is up, no pause, no hesitation, his body up and moving as soon as morning life kicks into Keith. 

Keith hurries to dress - still naked from the night before, he is suddenly uneasy at the thought of this Shiro’s eyes on his uncovered form. 

Shiro says nothing of his haste, and wordlessly moves to clothe himself, as well. He’s careful to face away from Keith as he does so. 

**::**

Keith moves about his day as if it were a normal one.

It isn’t, but he tries to pretend. 

He checks on the skins and pelts, and notes they aren’t drying as quickly as he would like them to. He checks the generators and his speeder, makes sure everything's in working order. He doesn’t check his traps - he knows they won’t have caught anything valuable yet. They don’t need more meat right now anyway. 

When he cooks breakfast, he cooks a plate for both himself and Shiro. Whether it’s out of denial or passive aggression, Keith isn’t sure, but he sets the food down in front of Shiro at the table knowing full well he won’t touch a bite of it. 

Keith eats in silence, watching as Shiro pointedly doesn’t even pick up his silverware. 

When Keith cleans up, Shiro offers to help, and it’s only out of resignation that Keith agrees. He even thanks him when they’ve finished. There's no normalcy to this life, but at the very least he can pretend that everything hasn't gone by the wayside. 

The day that follows consists of little more than his regular chores - tending to busted boards, minor repairs across the shack, just enough to keep the place livable. He needs to go to town, but he’s got nothing to bring in to sell or trade yet, so the trip would only be a waste. And so he works. Shiro stays close by his side throughout the day - follows him from task to task, helps him whenever Keith allows him to. Every now and then, Shiro will comment about something he remembers: the feeling of cruising across the desert on the speeder with Keith, or that time they had rainstorm out of nowhere and the roof leaked all night. 

It almost feels normal - but it tastes so bitter. 

It's little more than a reminder that this isn’t the same man he kissed and sent off to Kerberos all those months ago. He looks like him, he sounds like him, and he remembers all the things he’s supposed to remember. But he still feels like a stranger - a skinwalker, marred by death, haunting the house as though he were as good as the real, living thing. 

Maybe Keith is overthinking this. 

Maybe he should be happy that Shiro has come back at all. 

But he just can’t shake the ill feeling of unrest in his gut. 

Shiro smiles at him a few times that day - the expression pallid and cold - and Keith just can’t bring himself to smile back. 

**::**

That evening, just as the sun has gone down, Keith cooks the few leftovers they have. He makes just enough food for one person, and Keith doesn’t bother pretending he’s going to stretch this into two dishes. And yet when he moves to sit at the table with just one bowl of food in hand, Shiro still has the audacity to look surprised. 

Shiro watches Keith eat, nothing but the sound of clanking silverware to break the silence between them, and there’s an expression on Shiro’s face that Keith can’t quite understand. Confusion, surprise, perhaps even a hint of offense at the thought that Keith has seemingly come to terms with the fact that Shiro is no longer the flesh and blood man he’d once known. And unhappiness at that idea that Keith has already accepted his inhumanity. 

But no amount food placed before him for show will make Shiro eat again, and Keith knows that. So why even waste the dishware? 

And so Keith eats and doesn’t apologize and lets Shiro watch him as long as he pleases. 

Keith is taking his last few bites of stew when Shiro finally speaks to him, voice mumbling across the dinner table like it wants to break the uncomfortable silence. 

“Do you still want to know what happened to me?” 

Keith stutters a bit on the food in his mouth. 

Of course he wants to know. It’s not even about peace of mind, really; no matter what Shiro tells him, Keith _knows_ there will be little comfort in his words. It’s more about understanding; he needs to understand how the bright-eyed soul that had left him for the uncharted corners of the universe could come back as this broken monstrosity of an entity. 

Keith just wants to understand. 

So he chokes down his last mouthful of stew, nods, and tries his best not to appear too eager for answers. 

Shiro doesn’t look at Keith when he speaks - he keeps his eyes trained on the floor - but nods his agreement. 

“I don’t remember much, really. And frankly, I wish I could forget what I do... 

Shiro pauses for a moment and closes his eyes, almost as if he were waiting for Keith to tell him he doesn’t have to continue. But Keith doesn’t dissuade him; after everything that’s happened, after the long, agonizing months the two of them have spent apart, Keith  _ needs  _ to hear the truth. He figures after everything, the least he could have is the knowledge of what all Shiro has endured. 

Maybe he’ll understand him better. Maybe he will better understand why this Shiro seems so changed, so _foreign_ to him than the one who left for Kerberos. 

Shiro looks almost disappointed when Keith doesn’t rush to stop him from sharing. It’s only with a resigned shrug that he continues. 

“We were taken just hours after we landed on Kerberos, barely had time to collect any samples before…. before they came. I’d never seen anything like them…” 

Keith leans forward against the table on his forearms, his focus glued to the man sitting across from him. Shiro weaves him a tale of kidnapping, physical torture, emotional pain and manipulation, of agony and bodily modification. It’s a story filled with horrors that make Keith’s stomach churn, make his teeth clench so hard as Shiro speaks that his head aches. Shiro tells of experimentation, of the amputation of his arm, of how they _modified_ him, of the thing they wanted him to become. He tells Keith of the combat he was forced to endure, the gladiator battles, the countless lifeforms he was forced to kill just so he could stay alive. 

It’s a tale so grotesque that it almost feels far away from them both, almost as though it couldn’t possibly be something that the man sitting directly across the kitchen table from Keith was forced to endure.

When Shiro goes quiet, Keith lets the silence hang between them. There are a million questions on his tongue, but none that dare to stumble past the barrier of his teeth. He stares at Shiro's arm, allows himself to take in the power wrought within its twisted metal and wire.  

“But why your arm?” Keith asks, his voice hoarse as he forces himself to speak around the lump that has grown in his throat. 

Shiro gives a half-hearted shrug and crosses his arms, trying his best to hide the grotesque prosthetic that’s seared into his flesh. 

“They wanted me to be a weapon… So they made me into one.”

A pang of guilt juts deep into Keith’s gut - for what, he isn’t entirely sure. For not being able to help Shiro? For not being able to save him? For not trying even harder to make him stay? 

Keith shakes his head. There’s no room for thoughts like that… he did everything he could. 

“How, uh…” Keith starts, breaking his focus on Shiro in favor of staring at his hands where they’re clasped atop the kitchen table, “How did you… die?” 

Keith squeezes his interlaced fingers more tightly - desperate to stop the quiver that threatens them. 

"You... you did die, didn't you?" Keith continues, even though he already knows the answer. 

Shiro breathes a low exhale and licks his lips, one hand rubbing at the nape of his neck. 

“I don’t really remember… I remember them taking me to the arena, but I didn't want to go again, I couldn't do it again... And I resisted and struggled… and then I was fighting some guards and running. Guards were chasing me, and shooting at me… And then, then there was nothing. Just black.” Shiro pauses. “I think I was trying to escape… I just wanted to go home.” 

Keith bites his lip and forces himself to swallow. He takes a deep, uneasy breath as he nods, loosening his still-shaking hands from their tight clasp and resting them flat against the table. He jitters his nails for a moment as he tries to force down the hot well of tears that’s prickling behind his eyes. There's so much more he wants to ask - why Shiro is here, what was it like to die, how did he even get here - but he can't bring himself to ask a single one. 

“Well, you’re home now, so…” Keith mutters instead, pushing himself up to stand and rushing to take his empty bowl to the sink.

“I suppose I am,” Shiro mumbles from the table behind him. 

“Thank you for… telling me.” 

Shiro doesn’t reply, and Keith doesn’t look at him. Instead, he makes busy work of cleaning the few dishes that he’d used for his dinner. He washes them with ritualistic precision - they were barely dirty to begin with, but he scrubs off the grime as though it were three layers thick. Anything just to keep him busy as the silence begins to fall heavy over them once again.

After a few moments, Keith hears Shiro let out a low scoff. 

“I can’t believe the Garrison just left us for dead…” 

Keith doesn’t look back, but nods in agreement. 

“Yeah. I tried like hell to make them search for you guys. I fought with Iverson almost every day about it… But they wouldn’t budge. It’s why I got kicked out...” 

Somewhere in the back of Keith’s mind, there’s a niggling little whisper that tries to tell him:  _ you could have done more _ . But he ignores it and scrubs even harder at the already clean bowl in the sink. 

From behind him, Shiro begins to tap the metal fingers of his prosthetic against the table, the sound echoing loudly against the old, seasoned wood. It sounds uneasy, it sounds impatient, and Keith tries not to let the noise creep along his spine. With unsteady hands, he dunks the bowl into the water one last time, rinses the soap and sets it to the side to dry. 

“I wish I had stayed,” Shiro sighs, “I wish I’d never left Earth…” 

Keith licks his lips, already grappling for a pan so he can scrub it. 

“Yeah, I wish that too,” Keith tells him flatly, “I  _ wanted  _ you to stay.” 

“Yeah…” 

It’s a simple and innocent enough reply, but something about the shift in Shiro’s tone has Keith on edge. He grips the pan in his hands and drags the hot, soapy washcloth over it in slow, determined circles. 

“You know,” Shiro starts again, “I was always… a little surprised that you didn’t, I dunno, try harder to make me stay?” 

The pan slips from Keith’s hand, clattering into the hot water with a splash. 

Keith leers back over his shoulder, staring at Shiro out of the corner of his eye. 

“Excuse me?” 

Shiro shrugs innocently and averts his gaze from Keith’s. 

“You know, when I first told you about the mission? I just thought you would… I don’t know… try to dissuade me a little more?” 

Keith turns around fully, leaning back and bracing his hands on the sink as he stares at Shiro with an open mouth. 

“Have you gone mad?” Keith whispers, shock and confusion outweighing every other emotion he’s feeling, “I… I  _ begged you _ … to stay.” 

Shiro bobs his head from side to side: a subtle dismissal of Keith’s words. 

“Mmm, well, you  _ asked _ , I dunno about begg-”

A sudden, quick flash of rage flares in Keith's gut - hot and all-consuming in the face of Shiro's subtle accusation. The grind from Keith's teeth is almost deafening as he shakes his head in defiance. 

“No... No, I-I  _ begged _ , Shiro. I pleaded _daily_ … for you not to go. You-you fucking  _ know  _ I did... ”

“I mean, yeah, you  _ asked  _ a lot but you never really  _ fought  _ me on it-”

“Fought you??” Keith spits, cutting Shiro off as heat rises up in his chest.

“And then you just kinda,” Shiro continues, gesturing idly into the air, “let it go after a while…” 

“Yeah, because we had  _ fought _ about it, Shiro!” Keith yells, “We fucking argued about it constantly because  _ I  _ wanted you to stay. But, yeah, eventually I let it the fuck go because  _ you wanted to go _ and who the fuck was I to hold you back!” 

“I’m just saying maybe... if I’d thought you actually, truly wanted me to stay... then maybe I would have.” 

“Are you- are you fucking joking right now?! Because this isn't fucking funny..” 

“I’m just trying to be honest…” 

“Honest?” Keith seethes, striding to the table and standing over Shiro, “You want to talk honesty? I begged and pleaded with you to not accept that goddamn mission, and you fucking  _ know  _ I did! I let it go because you-  _ you  _ told me everything would be  **fine** !” 

He shouts the last word, unable to contain the anger welling in his chest, but Shiro doesn't falter. He stays planted in the kitchen chair like a stone and meets the hot rage in Keith's eyes with stoic candor. Keith glares down at him and clenches his teeth to hold back the venom he's aching to spit. Shiro almost seems like he's waiting for it, anxious for it.  Keith’s lips shake under the pressure, his eyes burn, and when he speaks again, he can barely raise his voice above a whisper. 

“You _promised_ me everything would okay… And who was I to hold you back?” 

Keith shakes his head, pushes the anger back down into his gut, and takes a painful step back from Shiro. He drags his hands across his face, desperate to wipe away the hints of tears that have been welling up in his eyes. 

Shiro looks almost disappointed. 

“I did everything I could," Keith huffs, "It’s not... it's not my fucking fault you didn’t listen to me…” 

With that, Keith storms back to the counter and scoops up his knife, tucking it into his belt. He strides out of the kitchen and into the living room without another glance at Shiro. He gathers his satchel and his jacket from off the chair in a rush and heads to the door. From back in the Kitchen, Shiro calls out to him.

“Where are you going?!”

“Out!” He shouts back through the house, “I’m gunna check the traps.” 

“Alone?” Shiro yells back. 

Keith doesn’t answer him. 

The traps will be empty - it’s far too early in the evening for anything major to have gotten ensnared yet, and Keith knows that - but he doesn’t care. He needs just a few goddamn minutes away from this shack, needs space away from Shiro. Without another word, he exits the cabin into the pitch of the night, not caring as the door slams closed behind him.

**::**


	6. .06.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit gets real this chapter, so buckle up.

**::**

The desert is dark at night - devoid of city lights with only the moon and stars to illuminate it, it’s easily engulfed in pitch and tar. But Keith likes it - it’s quiet. He needs the quiet right now. He’s not counting on there being anything in his traps, but the time spent away from the shack is good enough for him.

In his gut, a mixture of anger, heartache, and guilt festers, bubbling so voraciously it feels like he might choke on it. Logically, he knows he did everything he possibly could have for Shiro. He pleaded with him to stay on Earth, to not accept the mission to Kerberos. When Shiro and his crew went missing, Keith spent weeks researching and begging the Garrison to do a formal search and rescue. When the Garrison refused and declared the team dead, Keith begged them to at least do an investigation into what had gone wrong.

But they refused. They always refused. 

He fought his superiors so ferociously that they expelled him for it. And ever after that, he searched and searched, and didn’t give up until he literally had nothing else to go on.

He did _everything_ he could. He knows that.

And yet beneath that logic is the festering boil of guilt, that nagging voice in the back of his head that berates him and tells him he should have done _more_.

Keith shakes his head - desperate to rid himself of those thoughts.

He counts his steps as he treks across the empty desert. In the darkness, it’s easy to get lost. But he knows the way to each of his traps, could probably walk them in his sleep. And now, in the all-encompassing darkness, all he has to worry about are the eyes of other predators watching his motions and the occasional vagabond that roams the desert plains at night.

The first trap is empty, the meat in it untouched, and Keith isn’t surprised. He doesn’t mess with it, and instead proceeds on to the next one, another few hundred yards away from the shack. As he approaches it, Keith’s attention focuses in as he hears the slight rustle of a struggle ahead of him. He picks up his pace, trotting the remaining few yards towards the snare. As he approaches, he can just barely make out the silhouette of some small animal wriggling desperately in the trap’s hold.

It’s a rabbit, Keith realizes when he’s finally close enough to actually make out the shape.

It’s alive and well, likely freshly caught, too. Keith crouches down at its side to inspect the animal more closely. It’s a sizeable rabbit, and it appears to be unharmed, aside from the fact that it’s suspended off the ground by its back legs. Part of Keith says that he should take it back - it would be a good amount of meat and a lovely skin to sell. But another part of him, a softer part, wants to let it go. It isn’t injured, at least not that he can tell, and it clearly has a lot of fight and life left it in, judging by how it violently thrashes and wriggles any time Keith’s hand nears it.

It feels cheap to take an animal like this in its prime.

He has enough meat at home. Especially since he’s the only one who’ll be eating it.

With steady hands, Keith scruffs the animal and cuts the ties off from around its legs, freeing it. He releases it and shoos it away, watching as it scurries off into the distance until its shape is lost in the darkness.

From behind him, a low, gravely voice speaks.

“Letting another perfectly good catch go, huh?”

Keith doesn’t startle - he knows that voice. Keith lets out a low breath and extends back up to stand before brushing past Shiro with a rough bump.

“You know,” Keith starts, “part of me storming off was so I could have a few goddamn minutes alone.”

Shiro scoffs; it isn’t playful.

“Can’t have you roaming the desert alone at night. A drifter might scoop you up.”

His tone isn’t gentle, nor is it protective, and Keith chooses to outright ignore the comment. Without a word, he proceeds onward, making his way towards the third trap. Shiro follows without a moment’s hesitation. He keeps his distance behind Keith, maintaining a solid foot or so of space between them, but he doesn’t let Keith forget his presence.

“Look, I’m sorry if what I said upset you,” Shiro calls out from behind Keith. He doesn’t sound apologetic though - he sounds exasperated. “I just thought perhaps we could speak candidly.”

“Is that your idea of ‘candid’?” Keith snarks in return, not bothering to look back at Shiro, “Blaming me for _your_ choices?”

Keith tries to ignore the fevered whisper in the back of his head that’s still telling him that he could’ve done more.

“I didn’t _blame_ you, I just wanted to ask abou-”

“No!”, Keith shouts, turning back towards Shiro in a flurry, “No, you want to make this _my fault_.”

Shiro starts to protest, reaching out to grab onto Keith’s biceps - perhaps for comfort, perhaps for control, and Keith honestly isn’t sure which. But Keith doesn’t let him. The minute those cold hands touch his shoulders, Keith meets him with a rough shove. Shiro stumbles back, feet scuffling in the desert dirt.

“Don’t touch me,” Keith hisses.

Shiro obeys the command, but he doesn’t move to put any additional space between them. He stands his ground, asserting his place in the space between them.

“It’s not my fucking fault he left,” Keith whimpers. He tries his best to ward off the shaking tears that are threatening to choke him; he glares daggers at Shiro instead. He wants him gone. There’s a sickening feeling of dread and righteous upset that builds in his gut every time he looks at him and Keith just wants to get away from it, if only for a minute.

Shiro doesn’t move away from him, and there’s a look of cold, solemn disconnect on his face that chills Keith to the bone.

“It’s-it’s _not_ my fault he left…” Keith repeats, his voice just barely crawling past his teeth, “and it’s _not_ my fucking fault that he didn’t come home.”

Shiro scoffs and takes a hard step forward, closing the distance between them with determination.

“I did my goddamn best to get home,” Shiro starts, “no thanks to _you_.”

The ‘ _you_ ’ is said with such disdain that it takes Keith by surprise. Shiro’s words pierce him like a blade, more jagged than the one that rests at Keith’s own hip. Shiro dares yet another step closer to Keith. His approach is almost threatening: a heavy sense of foreboding in every footfall that draws him closer to Keith and Keith can feel the quivering dread rising up in his chest as he does.

Keith stares at Shiro for a moment before he furrows his brow and frantically shakes his head from side to side. He takes an uneasy step back, desperate to put even just another few inches of space between them. He just wants to get away, he just wants to have a few moments of quiet. There’s a storm that’s shaking and quaking inside of his chest - fear and anxiety and raw, foreign animosity that twists and turns inside him, crawling across broken glass and desperate to get out.

Keith needs the space, he needs a moment of calm to exist between them. But Shiro doesn’t let him have it.

“You can’t be him,” Keith whimpers, Shiro still closing the distance until he’s almost towering over Keith.

Shiro smirks, staring down into Keith’s wavering eyes.

“And why not?”

“He’d-he would never talk to me like that.”

“Well, I am _so_ goddamn sorry if maybe I’m a little different now, if my fucking trauma _changed_ me. Or maybe the fact that I’m a walking, talking _corpse_ has somehow made me a little fucking different, Keith! And I am _so_ very  sorry if I didn’t come back as the perfect, do-gooder pretty-boy you remember, but I am _him_ whether you like it or not!”

Shiro presses the palm of his prosthetic flat against Keith’s chest. He doesn’t shove at him, not so much as a push, but he puts the pressure there if only to remind Keith that he _could_ if he wanted to. Keith keeps his arm glued to his side, fingers balled up into tight, hardened fists; he clenches them so hard that the tendons ache under the pressure.

“It isn’t my fault,” Keith repeats, trying like hell to make his voice less shaky than it is. He can’t seem to make the quiver go away. There’s a vicious mixture of upset and fear and raw, unbridled anger clouding his head and gripping at his throat so hard he feels like he could choke.

“And god for-fucking-bid, Keith, if I wish you had actually fought to make me stay!”

Shiro is too much now, too overbearing. It feels like he’s everywhere and yet not here at all. With a frantic, far-too-rough push against Shiro’s chest, Keith shoves him away.

“I **did**! I _did_ fight! I swear to god, I fucking _begged_ you to stay!”

“You could have tried a little goddamn _harder_. You let me leave and now I’m dead!”

“It isn’t my fault!” Keith sobs, shoving Shiro again. But Shiro doesn’t let up. No matter the force of his shoves, the strength in his arms, Shiro always bounces back. He’s an immovable wall, an encroaching paddock that surrounds Keith and closes in before he can even catch his breath.

“ _You_ let me go, Keith!”

“No….” Keith whimpers with another feeble push at Shiro.

“You _let me_ **_die_**!”

“NO!”

Keith isn’t sure _exactly_ what happens. But as the exclamation leaves his mouth, his vision blurs, his mind blanking in a sea of hazy grey as he feels the raw, frantic anger in him bubbling up. Before he can stop himself, his fist collides with Shiro’s face - a solid punch square into Shiro’s jaw.

His hand should hurt. He hears the crack of the punch, hears the sickening sound of bone against bone as it collides with Shiro’s face, but he hardly feels a thing. It’s like hitting stale air. Shiro stumbles from the brunt of the blow nonetheless, staggering on his feet as he steps back and away from Keith.

“Fuck,” Shiro groans, hand flinging to grip at his jaw, and for an instant, Keith is actually somewhat _worried_ that he’s hurt him.

But Shiro just laughs.

It’s a dry, sardonic chuckle, so empty and callous that it sounds as if Shiro had dredged it up from the very depths of hell.

Keith breaks beneath the weight of it.

"Just like you," Shiro huffs as he thrusts his prosthetic into Keith's chest with hardened force, "Always trying to solve your problems with your fists."

Keith staggers from the brunt of the blow, but he doesn't go down. The stormy, hazy grey that’s lining his vision blanks suddenly to white - an iridescent anger swelling up and taking over as he lunges at Shiro, tackling him to the ground.

Shiro’s chuckle never stops, only briefly interrupted as his back collides with the hard, desert ground. All Keith can focus on is the sound of that laugh and the words that are playing like a broken record in his head, Shiro’s accusatory voice in his head telling him over and over again:

_It’s your fault, you could’ve done more, it’s your fault._

He gets Shiro pinned against the ground, but only for a moment before Shiro is fighting back. A well-aimed punch into Keith’s cheek dazes him just enough for Shiro to turn the scuffle around, fighting his way for dominance against Keith’s smaller frame. Shiro’s size is a definite advantage - the sheer might in his body might normally be enough to overpower Keith, but Keith’s anger, his unbridled frenzy has him swinging back with just as much force.

It isn’t a graceful ordeal. The two of them scuffle and grunt, rolling around in the ashy dirt, trading blows and kicks as they struggle for dominance.

They’re bloody at this point - at least, Keith knows that he is. He’s not even sure at this point if Shiro can even bleed anymore. But he can taste his own blood on his tongue, feel the cool metallic drip of it as it glides down his face from a cut on his cheek. He can already feel the bruises forming just beneath his skin.

Shiro’s prosthetic hits hard; the frame of it is unforgiving when it hits. The only thing Keith can do to stop the ache is to send his own fists careening into Shiro as hard as his body will let him.

“You- let- me- die!” Shiro grunts out somewhere in the struggle, trying like hell to get Keith pinned to the ground. But Keith only fights him harder.

 _No_.

It’s not his fault, _it’s not his fault_! He did everything he fucking could have done, short of shackling Shiro to the Earth to make him stay. It’s not his fault he couldn’t talk him out of going.

“This is… your... fault, K-Keith,” Shiro groans again as Keith jabs his knee into his side. Shiro flinches at the hit for less than a second, but it’s more than enough time for Keith to regain control.

He flings the two of them over, getting Shiro beneath him once again. He sends jab after jab against Shiro’s jaw - savoring the sickening crack of each blow. It’s better than listening to Shiro talk.

 _You could have done more_.

“No!” Keith shouts, “Shut up!”

Shiro says nothing, and yet the mantra continues to play in his head.

_You could have done more, you should have done more._

“Maybe I’d s-still b-be alive,” Shiro heaves in between Keith's unforgiving punches.

_Shut up, shut up, sh u t upp._

Shiro is bleeding now. There is rich, coppery blood that paints Shiro's face and the skin of Keith's knuckles. But Shiro still won’t shut up, the accusations won’t stop.

The tears are hot in Keith’s eyes as he fights. He’s desperate, oh so desperate, to drown out the damning sound of Shiro’s voice in his head. He wants to silence it, to wash it out, to smother it in screams and shouts and unbridled aggression. Anything at all to just make it stop.

 _You let me die_!

“It wasn’t my fault!” Keith shouts again, screaming his protestations down into the face of the man beneath him.

Before he knows what’s happened, Keith's hands have relaxed their fists, and the punches he's been flinging at Shiro have stopped. His hands are squeezing now instead, gripping and crushing, wringing their way deeply into a beautiful, olive-toned throat. Tight, hardened fingers that Keith isn’t even sure are his own squeeze that neck with so much force that Keith worries his bones might snap like twigs.

Shiro stops talking; his words are replaced instead with the guttural sound of struggle. Fingers squeeze tighter, curl in on themselves, nails dig into skin.

They draw blood.

Something cracks under his grip.

Shiro is choking, struggling for the air he doesn’t need to breathe, his body squirming beneath the weight of Keith’s body straddling him. Keith only holds on more tightly, because with his hands around Shiro’s throat, Shiro can’t accuse him of anything anymore. Shiro’s smile never falters either; he keeps on smiling, keeps putting on that awful, twisted grin even beneath the crushing force of Keith’s hands. Even as his eyes grow bloodshot, even as his face grows even paler than it was before, that smile doesn’t falter.

Keith’s vision is blurry by the end of it; his head feels light, he can hear his own blood pumping through his veins, ringing like a drum in his ears. But Keith crushes that throat until the movement stops, until the struggle dies down, until the only motion left is the rise and fall of Keith’s own, heaving chest.

And in the sudden stillness, Keith’s clarity begins to return.

The desert is dark, and very still, but there’s no mistaking the fact that there’s a motionless body lying on the ground beneath him.

With shaking hands, Keith releases his grip, trying to steel himself as his eyesight returns to normal.

From somewhere behind him, Shiro is laughing. And as his eyes come back into focus, Keith understands why.

It isn’t Shiro lying beneath him, bloodied and bruised and cathartically dead; it’s a stranger.

A man, to be exact. A man about Shiro’s height and build, with a prominent, angled jaw like Shiro's, dressed in old, ratty clothing that he’s likely had for years.

He must be a drifter.

Keith doesn’t have to check the man’s pulse to know that he’s dead. Throat bruised, capillaries burst beneath the skin, splotching his skin in ugly purple, black, and red. His eyes are bloodshot and wet with tears; a trickle of blood seeps from his nose.

Keith knows he’s dead. And Keith is the one that killed him.

Keith killed him. And Shiro's discordant laugh is the only sound that pierces the pounding of the blood ringing in his ears.

**::**

Keith stands on his two quivering legs, feet still straddled around the hips of the lifeless man beneath him. He needs some space, needs distance between himself and this corpse…this person… but he can't make himself step away.

His chest heaves - ragged, uneven breaths rush out of him with such fervor he think he might throw up. Behind him is still the awful, echoing sound of Shiro's laugh. Dark, dismal, atrocious. Once upon a time, he had loved Shiro's laugh. Now it's just a hollow, painful ringing in his ears.

“....Wh-who is this?” Keith stammers.

Shiro releases a huff.

“Who knows? A drifter? Who _cares_?”

Keith whips his head around, stumbling towards Shiro and pushing at his chest with violent frustration.

“Who-? Who cares?! _Me_! I fucking care!”

Shiro rolls his eyes, but doesn't acknowledge what he’s said. Instead, he strides past Keith and squats at the body’s side. He reaches out a hand, squeezing the dead man's jaw between his fingers, and angles the head so that he can look at his face.

“Gotta say, he sure does look like me, Keithy.”

Keith doesn't reply. He wraps his arms around himself - a poor attempt to shield himself from the reality that’s lying dead before him.

Shiro, still crouched at the nameless drifter’s side, shoots a glance over his shoulder back at Keith. Whether it’s Keith’s uneasy stance or the vacant look of shock on his face that Shiro picks up on, Keith isn’t sure, but Shiro hones in on his vulnerability in an instant. Shiro scoffs and gives Keith a dismissive, nonchalant shrug.

“Oh, don’t look so stressed,” he coos, pushing himself up to stand. He strides towards Keith with such blase indifference that Keith’s stomach turns. His brain tells him to step back, to step away from Shiro, to run far, far away from the dead man that’s walking towards him, but he can’t. His legs won’t work. He’s rooted in place - the desert sands aching to swallow him where he stands while Death himself approaches.

Shiro has never looked so pale.

He’s whiter than the blanching corpse lying on the ground. His teeth are bared in a grave, sympathetic smile that could make the devil’s blood run cold.

When he’s close enough, Shiro rests his metal hand on Keith’s shoulder. It’s meant to be tender, but it’s colder than a corpse and just as weighty. With slow, intimate motions, Shiro glides around Keith to stand behind him. Shiro’s hand drags from his shoulder to his back and down to his waist, fingers digging hard into the bone. He lifts his other hand - the one that’s human and yet still not warmer than the other - and relaxes it on Keith’s waist as well, gripping Keith hard and tugging on him until his back is pressed flush against Shiro’s chest. Shiro lulls his head onto Keith’s shoulder, presses the sides of their faces together.

When he speaks, his voice is nothing but a hushed whisper in the darkness, a ghost that slithers into Keith’s ear as the two of them stare at the corpse before them.

“There’s no one around for miles,” Shiro reassures him.

“There’s no one around for miles,” Keith parrots, eyes still focused straight ahead.

“You’ll get away with it.”

Shiro says it as though he knows it for a fact.

“I’ll…” Keith pauses, forcing down the lump that has grown like a cancer in his throat, “I’ll get away with it.”

**::**

They bury the body deep in the desert soil - drag him far away from the traps, even further away from the creeping eyes of civilization than they already were.

The ground out here is hard, but the work goes quickly. Neither of them speak throughout the ordeal, but Shiro’s stare pierces Keith like a blade through it all. When they’ve finished, the dirt is packed tight, the cracks filled in - neat and even - like it had never been disturbed in the first place.

Shovels over shoulders, dirt and dust on their hands, they return to Keith’s shack without a word.

The night behind them looms like a veil; when they make it home, it’s well past the midnight hours. Keith makes sure to lock the door behind them. In the kitchen, he sets the empty catch bag on the counter and wordlessly makes his way to the sink, Shiro in tow.

Shiro doesn’t hesitate to bee-line to the kitchen table, plopping down and reclining back in the chair as though he were relaxing. Keith hovers at the kitchen sink and makes sure to keep his back turned. For all of Keith’s tension and unease, Shiro appears entirely unbothered by the situation, and Keith has a hard time even looking at him. With a hesitating stare, Keith cranes his head to glance over his shoulder at the man sitting at his kitchen table, picking idly at his gritty fingernails.

Keith jerks his head back around and stares down at his own fingers that are white-knuckling the edge of the kitchen sink.

They’re disgusting - dark grime, dirt, and drying blood stand in stark contrast to the normal flushed peach of his skin.

He reaches an unsteady hand out, trying like hell to quell the tremor in his dirty, guilty fingers as he turns the water on. The stream is far too hot, but Keith doesn’t bother turning on the cold tap. He dunks his hands beneath the scorching water with the hope that it might blister away the culpability that lives caked beneath his fingernails.

He scrubs at his hands with slow, surgical precision, excessive amounts of soap and scalding water barely enough to rid him of the filth. When he’s done, his skin and flush and red - scrubbed to the bone and still so unclean.

He hates the sight of them.

And yet.

Keith flexes his fingers, watching in fascination as the clear, clean water drips from them, plopping into the sink with the weight of what he’s done.

 _And yet_.

And yet he doesn’t feel bad.

The realization hits him like a punch in the gut. Standing at the sink, his back to Shiro’s indifference, and staring down at those guilty, culpable hands, he realizes in one painful instant that he’s in awe of what he’s done, but not remorseful.

He doesn’t feel bad. He should. But he doesn’t.

Shell-shocked? Yes, of course. Dirty? Degenerate? Absolutely.

But remorseful? No.

Keith clenches his hands into tightly-curled fists, relishes in the feeling of his jagged fingernails digging into his palms.

“Why…” Keith stammers, “Why did you make me do that?”

It’s feigned innocence, and Keith knows it, a schoolyard shift of blame. Because if he can’t make himself feel bad, then it needs to be someone else’s fault.

It needs to be Shiro’s fault.

It _is_ Shiro’s fault.

Not the Shiro he used to know, but the replacement that’s come to fill the darkened void left in love’s absence.

Behind him, Shiro scoffs.

“Come now,” he chastises, “I didn’t _make_ _you_ do anything. You did what you wanted to do. It’s not _my_ fault you can’t handle the truth with a little grace and civility.”

For an instant, anger flares hot and painful in Keith’s gut. He slams his hands down against the edge of the sink, arms locked into place, barely supporting the weight of his body.

_It’s not true. It's not my fucking fault you left!_

He wants to scream it in Shiro’s face. Not this Shiro - but the Shiro that left him behind. The one that didn’t stay. The one that never came home.

He wants to yell it in the face of every person who ever left him to rot on his own. His mother, his father. He wants to scream into the gaping maw of the world and make it understand. 

But the anger fades in the very next moment, and is replaced instead by the heavy weight of sorrow.

It isn’t his fault… It… It isn’t. It can't always be his fault. 

He stares over his shoulder at the Shiro sitting at his kitchen table. And god al-fucking-mighty how he _misses_ him. He doesn’t want this thing - this thing that sits in his kitchen, wears Shiro’s skin, speaks in Shiro’s voice. He wants one fucking day where the all-consuming wrath of grief doesn’t eat him alive from the inside out. He wants one more day where Shiro was a light in his life and not just a part of the darkness that has devoured him since the Kerberos Mission went south.

He wants to go back.

Back to how it used to be, back to the time before Shiro decided to leave him behind like everyone else did.

Keith only realizes he's shaking when Shiro’s cold hand comes to rest on his forearm. The touch quells the tremor for the moment, but doesn't ease the disquiet that he feels. Shiro steps in close behind him, chest flush against Keith’s back as he drags his fingers along the length of Keith’s arm. Keith doesn’t resist the touch, but where he expects warmth, there is only cold weight and the solidity of a corpse - but it’s good enough, he supposes. Keith leans back into Shiro’s embrace as he circles his arms around him, encompassing him.

It’s a brief moment, lost and swirling in the cloudy haze of upset, but for an instant, it's almost like everything is normal again.

It's almost like things are how they were before: him standing at the sink, Shiro’s arms wrapped like a security blanket around him. It feels normal. And Keith can pretend for a single second that everything is as it was.

But it isn’t - and Keith knows that.

He remembers that fact the minute cold, dead lips pepper their touch across the curve of his neck and shoulder. They send a chill across his skin, remind him of the body that’s buried out in the nothingness of the desert, remind him of the lifelessness that surrounds him like a ghost.

Keith squeezes the edge of the sink like it’s his only lifeline. His eyes slip closed as his fingers grapple at it; Shiro continues to kiss along the stress-flushed flesh of his throat. Keith is shaking again - the tremor quakes from his fingers to his chest. But his body is still caged in, still walled off, still encompassed and held steady by Shiro’s increasingly oppressive form. 

Whether he wants to or not, Keith thinks again about his hands around Shiro's neck - the sickening color of bruised flesh - the gasping, choking cry of a death rattle. 

Things are not like they were before, and the death that lingers on Shiro’s lips is proof enough of that.

There’s a body in the desert, buried far beneath the dirt, with Keith’s hands around its neck. There’s a body that lives in his house in the shape of the man who had loved him.

The weight of a corpse bears down on his shoulders; it plants loving kisses across his skin while he tries his best not to shake.

There is blood on his hands and remorse is long gone, grief the only living thing left in its wake.

Keith heaves a unsteady sigh and cranes his head around to capture Shiro’s lips in a kiss.

“The truth hurts sometimes,” Shiro mumbles into his mouth.

**::**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading! I'm going to space out the chapter posting just a little bit to give myself enough time for final edits and such, so bear with me! 
> 
> If you liked it, please consider leaving a comment. I'm always aching to hear y'all's thoughts. Kudos are always appreciated as well. :) 
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) and on [twitter](http://twitter.com/commodorecliche).


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